September 30, 2018

Note: As you can see by the date, this essay was originally posted in 2018…but some things have just happened in my hometown this last week–most memorably perhaps one of the first-ever Homecoming Weekends (why did that take so long??), and along with that, the revelation that pomegranate consumption was a thing I knew nothing about.

True confession: I was a drum majorette in my high school marching band.

For three years, I got to carry the big baton and lead the 50 or so members of the band as we worked football games and parades.

My dress was a cream color, with a backing of satiny gold material on the underside of the skirt, so that if I happened to spin or even swish my hand past my skirt, spectators would be treated to a flash of brightness.  I don’t recall what I wore for panties, but there must have been something. 

There was an array of brass buttons lining the breast plate of the dress, and woven, braided bands were draped across the chest, and there were golden braided tassels with those little metal tips that tinkled when they touched each other like a wind chime that hung down on one side. There were some crazy epaulets too. And a whistle–I had a gold whistle on a gold braided satiny chain my grandmother made for me.

My hat was furry—kind of like a lamb’s wool coat, but with longer hair, and there was a brass eagle or something planted right smack in the middle.  There was a white plastic chin strap too, but as I recall there was no way to actually use it to keep the big hat on for any period of time.

My boots looked a bit like cowboy boots, in white faux leather, and they had gold tassels hanging from them.  When I saw my “replacement” a decade or so later at a football game, I called her over and told her my trick: to keep the tassels from flipping into the boots with every step, a piece of scotch tape run across the top where the tassel was affixed to the boot—keeps ‘em out every time.

She probably thought I was crazy.

I think she was wearing my dress, too.  I know I wasn’t the first to wear it and probably not the last, although there was an interlude for sure as the next person to take the job was a guy. Since there never had been one before(a guy), he got a brand new outfit.

Oh, and the band. The first year, they wore powder blue and red uniforms that were maybe 100 years old. OK, not that old, but they’ve been around for awhile. Our colours were maroon and grey. After the first year, so were the uniforms.

So each Saturday morning when there was a home football game, we’d assemble in the band room at the back of the middle school which was across from the football field–the room that shook when the LIRR pulled in each day around noon. We’d get ourselves in order (well, our band director Mr. Ezzard would) and we’d march right across the street and onto the field, the cadence of our amazing drummers propelling us forward. Quick national anthem, quick school fight song, and then off to the sidelines to cheer.

First quarter, second…then our halftime show. Yes it was prescribed: End zone, and opening salvo, and then we’d march right up to the home side, make the letters E and H and play the school song again.  Play a selection from the popular catalog (I recall “When I’m Sixty-Four—ha I almost am!), march to the other side, make the letters of the opposing team and play their song (how sportsmanlike!).  Then off the field, and, with the third quarter off, out for a slice of pizza (I remember some adult friends thinking it was hilarious that we got the third quarter “off”, as if you could schedule school spirit).

Note: Here’s where the latest revelation comes in. I can recall, maybe a year or so after we graduated and moved on but still caught the football games every time we were home, you could buy baked potatoes that doubled as hand warmers until they didn’t (I don’t know if anyone actually ate them). Just this week, as people were chatting on social media, the topic of pomegranates came up; apparently, it was tradition , for those not in the band, to head to the village early to pick up some fresh, hot Dreesen’s donuts on Newtown Lane and then double back to the A & P to pick up a pomegranate. The donuts I get–they’re special, but a pomegranate? Never heard of it, and never could have done it–can you imagine even one drop of pomegranate juice on that uniform? Powered donut fingers not a problem, but that….? Anyway, seems that none of us in marching band knew a thing about the pomegranate tradition.

Parades: Christmas at home, Newtown Lane to Main Street and back (almost like how we used to loop as we cruised on a Friday night, except when driving, the turnaround point was usually Main Beach; St. Patrick’s Day, following the green line down from Edgemere to Montauk Highway, thousands of people cheering us on; Memorial Day in East Hampton again, this time starting on Main and heading to the old burial ground behind Hook Mill.  There may have been a few others too, but that was a lifetime ago and I don’t recall.

There’s nothing like the feeling of walking right down the middle of what is usually a busy street–no cars, no traffic, just you… always a unique experience.

Anyway, it was fun and it was social and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

It was many years before I was in a parade again.

Fast forward a few decades to Havre, Montana.  Festival Days and I’m asked to ride in a car as a representative of our federal government.  Not once, but twice. Holy cow.

Both times I took Andy, and both times I drew a two seater car for my ride.  The first time, there was enough room for Andy to sit in the car with me; a couple of years later, he was a couple of years bigger—and he brought a friend with him.  Luckily, there was room for them in the town limo (I think there was only one) and they got to throw candy from the sunroof—they were pretty happy. Both weekends involved the homecoming game, a county fair, and our first real live demolition derbies.  At one, I judged a beard growing contest, met the future governor (and met him years later at a function in Calgary—funny how he didn’t remember our meeting at the VFW pancake breakfast years earlier), and ran into White Snake. At the other, someone put a full bottle of detergent into the fountain surrounding Mr. James J. Hill, builder of the Great Northern Railway. There were a lot of bubbles.

After that, I was away from parades for a while, until I got to march with the university in a couple of Pride parades and, in the ultimate excitement, in the Calgary Stampede Parade with the university.

Now, the Stampede parade is one of the biggest in North America; half a million people can turn out to watch, it’s played on TV across the country, just like the only two that are bigger—the Macy’s Parade and the Rose Bowl.

I’ve seen the Macy’s parade, as a spectator, and have set, as a goal, holding down one of those giant balloons—sometime in the next few years—I’m working on it. But I’m afraid that might be something I won’t get done.

As far as the Rose Bowl goes, I have always loved the floats, and have always wanted to have something, anything to do with them.  So I poked around and found out that, yes, you can apply to help decorate them.  Quick call to my friend Gina and she had us signed up last December for a shift with the La Canada-Flintridge Association to work on their float.

Holy cow, was it fun.  But it was also very hard work. We showed up early in the afternoon—Gina, her husband Scott and daughter Sophie and me–and were given our assignments.  It’s a very efficient operation, and it’s important to stick to your task…

…for Gina and me, that meant gluing hundreds of seeds, crushed nut shells, and grain to the foot of a turtle; Scott and Soph were assigned to the tree bark.

All the pieces that go into the float have to be natural, so through the course of the afternoon we worked with the lentils with crushed walnut shells and with black beans. Maybe some flax seeds too, I can’t really remember.

It’s kind of hard to tell, when you’re at the beginning of the week of work, what the finished project is going to look like.  Even though you’re shown the renderings, when you’re sticking hundreds of lentils to the foot pad of a turtle, you don’t really see much except lentils—and gobs of white glue.

AND guess what? We won a prize! The humor award!

So here’s a tip on the Rose Bowl: if you decide to do this, search online to find a float that works for you; start at the Tournament of Roses Parade main webpage. And if you want to get away from the seeds and nuts portion of the program, go later in the week; the flowers are the last things to get placed.

But do it soon, and book yourself to be in the LA area the week between Christmas and New Year’s. You might even want to get a ticket to watch your work go by –Gina and Scott and Sophie did…but by then, I was on to my next parade.